Pike's Folly (26 page)

V

Hope

1

Four months after his encounter with Nathaniel Pike, Henry Savage opened the sliding glass door to his brick patio in North Potomac, Maryland, and walked across the cool grass of his backyard, skirting the six-foot-tall fence that separated his property from his neighbor's. He was on the phone with his former associate Danny Pittman, who'd called to see how Henry was holding up now that he no longer worked for the Interior Department.

“I'm doing fine,” Henry told him. “Kate's teaching an extra class this semester, which should get us through the rest of the year.”

“Then what?” From Danny's tone of voice, he clearly believed that Henry had been crazy to quit his job, particularly after he'd invested so many years in it.

Henry smiled up at the sunshine, which felt warm and summery on his face. “Who knows? Maybe I'll go back to school. I've always wanted to study Eastern philosophy.” To further annoy his old colleague, he said, “I've been reading up on a lot of occult religions lately. Did you know that there are as many Zen Buddhists in San Francisco as there are registered voters in the state of Rhode Island?”

“I'm waiting for the punch line.”

Henry laughed. “Don't worry, I haven't completely flipped out yet. I'm just trying to broaden myself a little. Examine different ways of thinking.” His bare toes clenched at the grass, which stuck up in sharp, bristly sprigs around the outlines of his feet. A large black ant crawled across the top of his right foot, but he made no move to disturb it.

“What happened to you, anyway?” Danny asked. “The last I'd heard, you were flying up to the White Mountains to tear Nathaniel Pike a new asshole.”

The ant scurried off, and Henry walked across the lawn with his head down. The direct sunlight cast shadows on his bare chest, making him look well toned and muscular. “Nothing happened,” he said. “The whole trip was a bust. Nate's a harmless ol' kook—a little eccentric, but that's about it.”

Danny didn't buy it. “Sounds to me like you chickened out. And what's all this crap I keep hearing about Pike's old house in Rhode Island? Someone told me that the FBI was looking into it.”

“Oh.” Henry paused. “That was a false lead. Nothing turned up. I'm telling you, the guy's clean. Just like his taxes.”

As Danny droned on, Henry crossed to the center of the lawn and looked back at his house. His reflection in the sliding glass door was blurry, and all he could see was his face and his bare legs up to the thighs. Taking a step closer, he admired his lean torso, proud of the many hours he'd spent working out at the gym. On the other side of the house, he could hear neighborhood children playing in the street.

“You still haven't answered my question,” Danny said.

“What question's that?”

“What
happened
to you? You used to live for that department. Is this some kind of fucked-up midlife crisis? Because if it is, let me know, and I'll tell Barry Baker to keep your spot open for another six months.”

Henry sat cross-legged on the lawn, still staring at his reflection in the glass door. Beyond the fence, the neighborhood sounds continued: high-school girls chattering like birds on their way home from school; a car radio blaring pittery-pattery dance music, then fading mercifully down the street; Julie Watson sliding her minivan door open, calling to her kids to help out with the groceries.

Henry answered Danny with another question. “Have you ever felt like a bit player in someone else's movie?”

“All the time, my friend. It's called having kids. You get used to it—or if you don't, you should.”

“I guess it's hard to explain. I just wanted to try some new things. I feel like I know myself too well, if that makes any sense.”

“Not really, but that's okay. Just make sure to monitor your investments strictly from now on. You don't realize how much you're spending until the money stops coming in.”

“Sage advice.”

“Don't be sarcastic. I'm only trying to help out.”

Henry stretched out on his back and kept his eyes closed to the sun. Just within his range of hearing, Julie Watson was poking around her own backyard as her two kids chased each other in and out of the house. Every five seconds, the screen door swung open, then slammed shut.

“Sounds like Kate's home,” Henry lied. “I've gotta go. Keep in touch, all right?”

“Sure. We'll do Applebee's sometime.”

Henry said goodbye, set down the phone and rested his arms at his sides. A breeze blew across his body, and his skin prickled with the nearness of Julie Watson on the other side of the fence.

Now I get it,
he thought.
Now I understand.

Raising up on his elbows, he took firm hold of his hard-on and—quick, before she goes indoors!—cranked off under the hot October sun.

2

After such a busy summer, the start of autumn signaled a welcome return to normal. For Marlene, this meant getting a job at the Providence Place Mall, where she worked three days a week as a salesclerk at Zales Jewelers. The store was run by a family of Lebanese merchants who'd hired her on a probationary basis, given her criminal record. These days, Marlene felt like she was on probation everywhere, which was fine with her. Nothing wrong with hanging out in purgatory for a while.

As a new hire, Marlene was expected to work the worst shifts, with the least chance of earning a decent commission. This, too, she accepted. The women from the store were kind to her, albeit in a reserved, territorial way. On Wednesdays, she and three other clerks went to lunch at the food court in the mall, where they ordered salads and Diet Cokes and talked about their lives outside of work. Marlene rarely said anything except in response to the most direct questions. When asked about her husband, she would say, “He's a writer,” and leave it at that.

While she was at work, Stuart used the time alone to catch up on some reading. He'd been neglecting this lately, a symptom of his general funk. If he couldn't write, then at least he could read, which might lead to something down the road. He read Jerzy Kosinski, John Updike, Henry Green, John Kennedy Toole. He'd forgotten how to recognize a really fine piece of fiction, but once he'd become reacquainted with the authors on his shelves— Richard Yates, Graham Greene, Malcolm Lowry—he began to see the point in writing again.

As for the Independence Project, the Kmart finally closed its doors in late July, and Pike went back to leading a quieter life, spending most of his time in North Conway and visiting Providence only to keep the occasional dinner date. Though his friends didn't see much of him anymore, he remained a frequent subject of speculation. The city seemed grayer and smaller, less dynamic without him.

Heath and Allison broke up right before he went to L.A. to work on his first feature-length film for Miramax. Ever since fragments of his
Independence Project
movie began to circulate online—first as transcripts, then as downloadable video clips— his following had grown exponentially until it encompassed a sizable swath of the eighteen-to-thirty age bracket, a demographic known for its willingness to embrace any passing fancy, no matter how shallow or derivative. No one complained that the content of the material was severely lacking or that the video quality was minimal at best. Heath was young, cool and reasonably well connected, thanks to his friend and sometimes angel, Nathaniel Pike. The very fact that he had nothing to offer made him even more attractive from a marketing point of view.

Celia Shriver, Alice Shepperton and Cathy Diego found new causes to champion as the year wore on. Cathy scaled back to part time at the NHPIRG, while Alice battled a misdemeanor charge stemming from a traffic violation in August. Closer to home, Celia enrolled in a Bikram yoga class that kept her in Tiverton three afternoons a week. Even more than spring, autumn was a time of new beginnings.

One day in early fall, Stuart got a call from Gregg Reese asking him to come over for a visit. Gregg was reluctant to state his business over the phone, but Stuart agreed to meet with him. Gregg wasn't the sort of person Stuart heard from on any regular basis, so the call was especially intriguing.

Stuart arrived at the Reese house dressed in casual work clothes: brown loafers, a pair of khakis, an off-the-rack sports jacket and a blue oxford shirt, open at the neck. In his jacket pocket was a wadded-up tie, which he'd decided against at the last minute. Driving across town, he felt like he was going to a job interview.

Gregg was alone when he led him into his large, Tudor-style house and to a sunroom that overlooked the backyard. Like Stuart, he was wearing a sports jacket and an oxford shirt unbuttoned at the neck.

“You look like you've been on vacation,” Stuart said, observing Gregg's sunburn, which had started to peel on his nose.

“Yes, I was just down in Florida with . . . friends of the family. Would you like something to drink?”

Stuart had learned never to say no to free booze, so he nodded and asked for whatever was easy.

“I'll get us both a beer,” Gregg said, and hurried off to the kitchen. While he was gone, Stuart noticed a copy of
My Private
Apocalypse
sitting on a table next to a wicker settee. Gregg's reading glasses were on top of the book, and a scrap from a newspaper marked his place about halfway through. The temptation to pick up the book tugged at Stuart's heart, but he resisted it.

Gregg returned with two bottles of Sam Adams. Before handing one to Stuart, he lowered his head and assumed a more casual tone. “Yes, as I was saying, I was in Florida with a man I've been seeing.”

“Great,” Stuart replied, not in the least bit surprised. Funny of Gregg to think it wasn't obvious he was gay.

Gregg looked relieved. “Cheers,” he said and gave Stuart a beer. They both took long swigs from the bottles. Stuart could tell that Gregg wasn't a regular beer drinker by the inexpert way he held the bottle by the neck.

“I've been reading your novel,” Gregg said and went over to get the book. Stuart felt a surge of dread as he tilted the book to let the reading glasses slide off. “My daughter left it here when she moved out of the house.”

“Oh? Where's she now?” Stuart asked, grateful for the chance to talk about something else.

Gregg kept his eyes on the book, which to Stuart looked thin and ordinary. “Allison has her own apartment in Downcity. It's a very nice loft—perfect for her, really. She moved there right after Heath went out to California.” His attention shifted to a framed photograph of her. He sighed. “Anyway, she's gone.”

“Does she like living on her own?” Stuart asked, picturing a messy bathroom, pizza boxes stacked up in the hallway, dirty dishes in the sink, shoes and underwear piled on the living room floor. Much like his own apartment when he was her age.

Gregg chuckled. “Who knows? I never see her anymore. Her grandmother left her a lot of money when she passed away. I assume she's saving some of it.” He went back to the book. “This is quite a remarkable accomplishment, Stuart. Based on your own experiences, yes?”

Stuart took another sip of beer. “Yeah, some,” he said.

Gregg hadn't expected such a curt response, and he wondered if he'd said something to offend Stuart. “I suppose that's okay sometimes. To embellish, to stretch the truth a little.”

“What do you mean?” Stuart asked.

“Well, just that . . . it happens all the time, doesn't it? The stories we tell about our families. It's all pretty much myth to begin with. For example, the character of the father in your book. I'm sure your own father wasn't really like that. There might've been some shade of truth to it, but the rest is just made up, isn't it?”

Stuart wasn't sure how much he wanted to go into this with Gregg. “Actually, whenever I try writing about my father, I usually wind up writing about my mother, and whenever I try writing about my mother, I wind up writing about my father.” Now why did I say that, he wondered. Is it true, and maybe I'm just now realizing it for the first time?

Outside, a commercial jet began its descent into T. F. Green. Engine noise trailed after it, sounding faint through the windows. In Rhode Island,
everyone
lived near the airport.

“I'd like to write a book someday,” Gregg said. “There's a small publisher in Boston that keeps asking me to write my memoirs, though I can't imagine anyone outside of Rhode Island would be interested.” He was approaching his subject cautiously, and Stuart began to suspect a hidden motive. “I suppose if I
were
to write a book, I'd need some help.”

“Is this a business proposition?” Stuart asked.

Gregg gestured for him to sit down and did so himself. “If you like. You wouldn't have to do much research. In fact, you wouldn't have to do any research at all.”

Looking down at his beer, Stuart saw he'd already drunk half of it.
Pace yourself,
he thought.
You want to be sober tonight for
Marlene.

“Our family's always been a little sketchy on its history,” Gregg explained. “Go back two, three hundred years, and you're pretty much relying on hearsay. No one really knows what the Reeses were up to before the nineteenth century. My mother always insisted it was a family of lawyers, but we could've been anything—sailors, craftsmen, spies. We could've been slave traders, for all I know. In fact”—he snapped his fingers—“I like that. We could use that for our book.”

“You're kidding, right?” Stuart asked.

“Not at all. A little creative license never hurt anyone. Besides, it makes sense. All this money had to come from
somewhere,
you know.” Gregg frowned at the elaborate furnishings in the room: the set of mahogany shelves his father had bought at auction back in the sixties; the hand-painted ceramic lamp his mother had brought back from a trip to Portugal; several large paintings in ornate, gilded frames. His face looked aged, sad, bitter, eager, excited and vengeful—all at once. “I want people to know the
real
Reese family, Stuart, even if it's not precisely real. That's what this book should be about—
my
reality. I can't keep living like the pope or . . .”

“Mother Teresa?”

“That's right. I can't keep living like that. The reality is that we've all got blood on our hands, including me and you. You can have all the best intentions in the world, but you have to know— you
have
to know, Stuart—that you're still guilty of something. And the better your intentions, the more guilty you are.”

“Why's that?”

“Because you're lying. Some people never stop lying until the day they die, and I don't want to be one of them. I'm tired of the parties and the fund-raisers and the public service announcements. I'm tired of everyone admiring me and telling me how wonderful my parents were. I just want to be normal.”

“And what's normal?”

Gregg began to rock in his chair. “I'll tell you what normal is. Having
flaws.
My mother didn't understand that. She refused to accept flaws in herself or me or anyone else for that matter. Isn't that crazy?” He laughed, and Stuart, feeling uncomfortable, laughed, too. “I just want some peace. I want some peace for myself.”

As he listened, Stuart wondered why Gregg had chosen to open up to
him,
of all people. “I'm still not certain what you're trying to accomplish by writing this . . . book of yours. It's not going to do much for your reputation.”

Gregg brought his beer to his lips but didn't drink. “That's the point. Picture the worst thing imaginable, something utterly depraved and appalling. Now
that's
what I want people to think of when they hear the name Reese. Not the Gregg Reese School for the Developmentally Challenged or the Gregg Reese Center for the Visual Arts. You get it?”

“I think so,” Stuart said, though he really didn't.

“That's the thing about me, Stuart, which you probably don't understand, but you should.
Everyone
should understand it. All I am is me. I don't want to slink around anymore.”

“Slink around?”

“That's right. And that's for Allison's sake, too. We all need to get back to being real people.”

Stuart looked away. For all of Gregg's complaints about his public image, Stuart had a hard time sympathizing with him. What reputation did Marlene have except as a freak show on page eight of the
Providence Journal
? There were worse things in the world than having people think well of you. “I've never actually ghostwritten anything before,” he said. “I have a hard enough time writing as Stuart Breen, let alone as someone else.”

“Oh, you'll do fine. This my last act of philanthropy, Stuart, so let's make it a good one. All my life, I've always had to make other people happy. My mother, Renee, even Allison. I want to make myself happy now.”

“And
this
will make you happy?”

“Being alive makes me happy, and this makes me feel alive.”

Stuart didn't want to spoil his good mood but said, “Well, I'll be honest with you. There's not going to be much support for the Reese Foundation once a book like this comes out.”

Gregg smiled. “It's not called the Reese Foundation anymore. Starting next year, we're calling it the People's Foundation. Celia Shriver's taking it over.” He winked. “Don't tell anyone you heard it from me.”

After some more talk about Celia, Allison, the book— whatever was on Gregg's mind—it was time for another beer, so they went into the kitchen and pulled a couple of Sam Adamses from the refrigerator.

“Let's drink them out of frosty mugs,” Gregg said. He opened the freezer door and brought out two glass mugs that frosted up once he set them on the counter. Inside the freezer, he'd left room for the turkey he'd already ordered at the butcher's. Thanksgiving was Gregg's favorite holiday, and he liked preparing for it early. Last November, he'd had Allison and Heath over for dinner, and he hoped she'd want to do it again this year. He wanted to introduce her to Donald Kress, the man he'd been dating since August.

Gregg poured their beers and handed Stuart a mug. “It's been one hell of a year, hasn't it?”

“Yep,” Stuart said, tasting his beer.

“I'm excited about this book. Are you?”

Stuart nodded, and a trace of his old irritation returned. What do you expect me to say? No?

“Don thinks I'm crazy. Don—that's my friend. He's a worrier. I told him, I've done enough worrying. I'm trying to be less cautious these days.”

They took their drinks into the sunroom and nursed them for the next half hour. The beer made them both sleepy, until finally Gregg looked at his watch and said, “I need to change clothes. I'm meeting Don for dinner.”